These weak attempts at verse could not be droller.
Your stuff is less inviting than ebola
(but not as catchy). Wordier than Emil Zola,
you haven’t got the steam to be a roller.
I’ve seen more cutting-edge in Pepsi-Cola.
You clearly honed your style in Fuengirola.
About as challenging as last year’s “¡Hola!”
(I’m sure you’re highly thought of in Angola.)
But that aside, I need a favour, mate.
The flood of would-be Shakespeares is in spate.
I’d like you to review – that is, donate
your time and talent (at the going-rate,
which happens to be zero.) Desecrate
the pricks who prattle, and the prigs who prate.
Denounce, detract. Indulge that gelding hate
that wells in all of us. The cut-off date
is looming, so get hacking. Don’t be late!
living my life my own way
will jumpstart me every day
reassuring me somehow
soulfully I complete now
Written 4-26-23
Contest: Write a Jueju – Qijue Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Emil Pinet
A pioneering Expressionist Emil Nolde
whose is uniquely bold
Painting with artistic flair
simple & sana a care
Coprolalia
Dr Emil at the cottage hospital had a problem
he was not aware of; he had worked in bigger hospitals
but fired for being rude to patients.
Dr Emil was a good doctor and a kind man the staff
The hospital accepted his quirks. as did the patients
and in the small town regarded as lovable eccentric.
Doing his morning round, he said to an old patient
“Does he never die, the ing old fart?”
“What is the old over there doing in my ward.”
Chuckles from beds
Dr Emil continued like nothing had happened unaware
of what was coming out of his mouth?
One day the inspector of hospitals came around the staff
did their best to keep Emil away from her, he met her
In the hall; the greetings were pleasant until he said
she was “an out- ed old whore.”
The offended lady was not willing to forget
Dr Emil was fired; the town lost a good man.
Our Emil got a job in Mongolia no one speaks English
It doesn’t matter what he says.
The Swiss painter Emile Nolde*
used artistic licence 'til very old
Not of scenes too local
but in visions primitive&tropical
*https://www.wikiart.org/en/emil-nolde
Merry Christmas to all my Poetry soup friends
Thanks for all the kind support that never ends
Your contests are a jump start to my sleepy muse
Haiku, rhyme, free verse, it’s fun to choose
Dear heart writes magnificent poems of melancholy blues
Lin writes masterpieces expressed with beautiful colorful hues
Jan’s limericks are fun, hilarious and sometimes very bawdy
Victor’s beautiful touching poems should be read by everybody
Chris writes heart felt poems full of romance and love
Greg B writes volumes, talent expressed way above
Charlie can write poems that are fun and serious too
Andrea writes great poems, her talent shines through
Emil, Alexis, Eve, Heidi, and WW keep adding talented gems
Richard’s poems help us see the world through a different lens
Ed writes spirited poems and his contests are creative
Anne-Lise writes poems that are sometimes innovative
Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to all of you
Thanks for the all the support and encouragement too
I will keep writing and adding my poems to the soup
I enjoy all your poems from such a talented group
Oh spring!
At last you have begun to throw aside your blanket of snow
Now beside the porch the little crocus have begun to grow…
Your breath is slowly melting the winter ice along the creek
And the warming sun is fading the countenance once so bleak…
Oh spring!
Along the branches come marching a riot of green leaves
Morning sunshine on the pond a magical mosaic weaves
The robin wanders across the lawn, soon he’ll build his nest
An old bear now leaves his den and his long winter’s rest….
Oh Spring!
The promises that winter’s muse has made are coming true
And life on this, our mother earth, is once again brand new…
3/15/19
Spring is in the Air contest
Emil Pinet Sponsor
One day while fishing on the bridge,
I hooked a gorgeous speckled trout,
Reeled it in and pulled it out,
Carried home, stored in my fridge.
The trout it was prepared next day,
Two large filets cooked and eaten,
Flavor intense could not be beaten
By any chef, no how, no way.
With spinach green, tomatoes red,
Sautéed perfection in olive oil,
Potatoes piping from the boil,
A perfect meal left us well fed.
A glass of wine, a Pinot Gris,
Washed down the food with complement,
The nose? Fresh flowers, a lovely scent,
Pure vintage, two thousand and three.
Relaxed, forgetting all our sorrow,
After such a sumptuous dish,
I long to catch another fish,
To the bridge again, perhaps tomorrow.
2/3/2019 - Enclosed Rhyme Poetry Contest - Emil Pinet
Was a giant terrific Mom
Had talents and habits galore
A natural mom to her core
The head of the family kingdom
Who took wise care of those she bore
Best of those who had gone before
Did not waste any time, my Mom
A simple soul, who knew life’s score
So many came to her front door
Did not believe in atom bomb
She wanted no one killed or sore
A peacemaker forevermore
Was a giant terrific Mom
The head of the family kingdom
Did not waste any time, my Mom
Did not believe in atom bomb
Peacemaker forevermore
Written on July 13, 2018
Entered into Emil Pinet’s Contest
New Constanza Poetry
These vain attempts at verse could not be droller.
Your stuff is less inviting than ebola
(and not as catchy). Wordier than Emil Zola,
you haven’t got the steam to be a roller.
I’ve seen more cutting-edge in Pepsi-Cola.
You clearly honed your style in Fuengirola.
About as challenging as last year’s “¡Hola!”
(I’m sure you’re highly thought of in Angola.)
But that aside, I need a favour, mate.
The flood of would-be Spensers is in spate.
I’d like you to review – that is, donate
your time and talent (at the going-rate,
which happens to be zero.) Desecrate
the pricks who prattle, and the prigs who prate.
Denounce, detract. Indulge that gelding hate
that wells in all of us. The cut-off date
is looming, so get hacking. Don’t be late!
Happy we pals of battalions from villages born of love
And sweet tender mercies, unlike here entrenched
With the foe. Grey mists on the horizon, silhouetted hove
Of sallow composition; subdued and drenched.
Between us, in 'no man's land' a barren waste
Of limbs stacked high, orchestrating the way
Of death, foreshadowing yet even still the taste
To come, and soon; at the break of day.
Our friends, fathers, uncles and brothers
In arms; cleaving the ground of crimson red
Left on the battle scarred plains, with their mother's
Voices ringing out, as bells that toll the dead.
Then slowly faint whispers are heard amidst the grave
Of brown and grey. "Is that you John!Bill! Fred?"
"Is that you Hans!Jurgen!Emil!"? You the brave
Who fell, still living amongst the dead.
The shroud of death that covers distempered cries
Now lifting as both find their heroes of cause.
And naked transgression remains; signature of lies
And deceit; like whores showing no remorse.
this village of Platonius was the only city
physically lowered by the Gods into an
underwater abyss.
the inhabitants were given the ability to breath underwater
but,if they tried to surface the flares of the sun would strike then with burnt termination.
the wild disjointed mentality of these people was both taboo
and unforgiving,legendary though they were.
once known as the isle of EMIL a once sacred post to the mythical God
Fuutre.
why would a God sentence this humankind of wretches to such
a plight?
Harsh resolve some say.
to this day if you ever stand by a body of water of any kind and you see the foam of
bubbles,remember these people for they have not forgotten you.
Brian Emil, my Brother,
Tall, lean and handsome with
Beautiful almond-shaped eyes,
Always wearing a perfect smile
You never hurt a fly
My protector, my friend
Mama’s handy man
At such a young age
What special gifts you possessed
From fixing radios and ovens
Pianos and furniture
Every thing that broke you mended
And handled with such care
I only knew you eight years of
The fourteen you spent here on earth
Sweet memories of you live abundant
In my heart after all this time
I remember you just as you were
I love you Brian, I always will
To my Brother Brian (RIP)-went home in many years ago.
Deep
contours-
in landscapes
of his inward
man.
Ekphrasis -Emil Schumacher
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